


Aberration

by Snownut



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:32:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snownut/pseuds/Snownut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of story fragments written from the perspective of multiple characters. House-centric. Spoiler-free unless otherwise marked. Safe for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Price of Fame

Blythe House was seated patiently in the waiting room, flipping idly through an old magazine. Beside her Greg was slouched comfortably, engrossed in an extremely large book with his feet propped up on the remaining magazines on the table. She bit her cheek to stifle the laughter that threatened when the woman across from them glared first at Greg's intrusive feet and then glanced at his cane; understanding dawning in her eyes. Her merriment vanished instantly; she met the woman's intense look with one of her own . For his part, Greg ignored everything and everyone as he flipped between pages and scribbled intently on the yellow notepad in his lap.

"What are you reading?" she asked genially. Greg started, and looked up at her. His glasses were sliding down his nose, and Blythe smiled as she pushed them back up.

"It's a nephrology book." He said, already returning to the book. He was taking notes, Blythe realized, and leaned forward to read what he'd written. '…inconclusive answers given the scope of the study…unknown etiology...possible that complications arose due to unknown renal function at time of presentation…'

"What are you reading it for?" she asked, and smiled slightly when Greg put his fingers between the pages and looked up at her in exasperation. She knew he'd never say he was irritated with her, but he couldn't help but show it. She'd often felt the same way when he'd been a little boy, and asked questions about everything.

"I'm editing it." He said succinctly.

"Why?" she smiled then, and Greg rolled his eyes.

"I'm a contributing editor. Makes me happy to point out mistakes. Makes them happy to have my name listed." He opened the book again, and resumed reading without saying anything further.

"Your opinion means that much to them?" Blythe asked. Greg nodded absently, already lost again in the text. Blythe sighed, and reached around Greg to the pile of magazines he'd left sitting on his backpack. He'd pulled everything out when he'd gotten the book out. They had to be marginally more interesting than old copies of Better Homes and Gardens. She sorted through them, ignoring People and US and journals in every language but English. She paused when she discovered a journal on experimental medicine; she flipped through the articles and tried in vain to read one, but every other word was about some obscure disease and it made little sense to her. The pictures weren't much to look at, either. Especially the parasites. Blythe reached for another journal, the New England Journal of Medicine, and paused at the cover. In the list of doctors who had contributed articles, Greg was third from the top. She snuck a glance at him, to find he was still engrossed in his textbook. When she opened the journal and turned expectantly to the page listed on the cover to find a boldtype underlined title 'Keratoderma Blennorrhagica' submitted by Gregory House, MD. Fingering the page tenderly, she felt a thrill of anticipation race down her spine as her eyes sought out the work itself and began reading expectantly:

'A 55-year-old bisexual man presented with a few weeks' history of lethargy followed by the onset of a widespread nonpruritic rash that covered much of his body, including the palms…'

Blythe skimmed the article, finding very little that she understood, but still left with the impression that Greg had solved a very difficult case. She eyed her son thoughtfully, wondering at his reticence. She didn't know much about medicine, on the whole, but she knew Greg was widely respected as a doctor. But he never talked about his career; aside from glib comments like the one he'd made earlier about editing the textbook. Blythe longed to ask about the article, but knew that Greg wouldn't want to talk about it. She sighed, and set the journal aside. One last magazine caught her eye, and Blythe pulled it out from the bottom of the stack. It was a TIME magazine, and there was a bright green post-it stuck to the front of it that begged Greg to at least look at it. It looked like James Wilson's left handed scrawl. Blythe smirked; Greg had undoubtedly buried the magazine as soon as he'd seen it. She lifted the slip of paper to find Greg's piercing blue eyes staring at her from the cover. She gave a startled gasp and pulled the post-it off to find it was Greg—and James. Ten doctors in all, in varying states of dress. Greg. Her Greg.

On the cover of TIME magazine.

Unable to breathe, Blythe's eyes flicked to the headline; Cradle to Grave: Top physicians share their choice in doctors specializing in everything in from conception to nephrology. She eagerly dove into the article, finding it on page six. Each doctor was listed separately; it began with a doctor specializing in conception and moved alphabetically forward. She forced herself past the page where Greg was and on into the article in search of oncology. James was easily the youngest doctor in the group; in his late thirties. He was praised for his compassionate approach to medicine, and for the higher than average rate of remission in his patients. Blythe was amused to learn that James was one of the youngest department heads in the Oncology field. He looked professional, as always, in his neatly pressed suit and tie.

Taking a deep breath, she felt anticipation jolt through her once more as she paged back to the article about Greg. He wasn't in his usual jeans and t-shirt; instead wearing a smartly pressed suit jacket and a shirt that brought out the beautiful blue of his eyes, even if it was untucked. His dress pants were even free of wrinkles, though she smiled to see he still wore his Nikes. Undoubtedly, the work of one James Wilson. Greg hadn't touched an iron in years; and he'd even stopped bringing his suits to the drycleaner after his leg had been hurt. He looked very handsome, she decided. She snuck a look at Greg as he sat beside her in his graphic t-shirt and his baggy jeans, his hair wild and face stubbled. He didn't acknowledge her scrutiny, and Blythe returned to the article after a moment.

'…Dr. Gregory House is head of the Department of Diagnostic Medicine at the Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital in Princeton, New Jersey. Specializing in Infectious Disease and Nephrology, Dr House is world renowned for his ability to diagnose rare and elusive conditions in patients given almost no hope for survival…' the article went on detailing a few highlighted cases before moving into Greg's personal life; '…disappeared unexpectedly from the medical community nearly six years ago after suffering an infarction in his leg. Despite drastic measures undertaken to preserve his fragile health, Dr House remains in chronic, debilitating pain that limits his mobility. Due to his physical limitations, Dr House has not re-established an active practice; instead taking patients upon referral at his discretion.'

Blythe felt Greg's eyes on her, and she lifted her gaze to meet his. He'd set the book aside, and was studying her thoughtfully.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" she asked quietly. He shrugged.

"Didn't think it was worth mentioning." He said simply.

Blythe stared at him, incredulous. "You didn't think it was worth mentioning that my son was on the cover of TIME magazine?" she asked loudly. Greg winced, looking decidedly embarrassed. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. The woman across the table surrepitously picked out TIME and eyed Greg quietly; her pinched, sour expression had warmed into something mellower. The change didn't escape his notice, and he turned a withering look on his mother.

"It's not a big deal." He said quietly, as he began shoving his books back into his bag. Blythe shook her head, but Greg met her gaze steadily. "It's not. It's nothing new." He amended at her look of desperation. "They just made it available to the public. They just made sure a lot of idiots will want to see the 'world famous diagnostician'." His pager beeped, and he sighed, loudly, before pulling it out and holding it up. He hit a button, and then returned it to the holder clipped to his belt.

"Who is it?"

"My team." He said shortly. "They've admitted a patient."

"Do you need to go?" Blythe asked quietly, and Greg shook his head.

"No. They can handle it. This won't--" He'd no sooner said it, when his phone rang. He groaned then, and dug his phone out.

"House." He growled. Blythe watched Greg sink back in his chair and rub his eyes tiredly. "I'm not going to be back until mid afternoon at the earliest. No, she hasn't even had her appointment yet." Greg paused, and Blythe handed him the TIME magazine, which he stuffed back into his backpack. "The only reason I'm here is because her GP is a moron, and—" he shook his head.

"Mrs. House?" a voice called, and Blythe touched Greg's arm in case he hadn't heard the nurse. "We're ready for you." She got to her feet, and took Greg's backpack for him as he rose to his feet with his cane in one hand and his phone in the other. He didn't appear to notice that she'd taken it; or, more likely, he'd chosen to ignore it. She smiled as she sidled past him, and followed the nurse quickly with Greg trailing in her wake.


	2. Speedcubing

He drifted silently along the back wall, mindful of excited kids and gleeful adults brimming with the tale of their time. He watched eagerly as nimble fingers flew over brightly colored cubes, twisting and turning—seeking the answer from the puzzle in their hands. Different tables spread around the room were chaired by Rubik's cube enthusiasts of all ages united by one thing only: the need to solve the puzzle.

He'd been nineteen when the Rubik's cube had first come out. A brightly colored 3D mechanical puzzle had been beneath his interest at first—but when Oma had sent him one for Christmas he'd been begrudgingly hooked. The first time, it took a little over a week to solve. The second, less than a day. The third, an hour. The cube wasn't a child's toy, and it wasn't a game. It was truly a puzzle. He'd spent countless hours fiddling with the color combinations and turning corners end over end before he'd come to the realization that the Rubik's cube was little more than an algorithm. And once he'd discovered the basic algorithm—it was easy to figure out how to manipulate it. With that knowledge, his speed had increased tremendously until he was solving the cube in just under a minute.

In 1982—after an unexpected scramble to move to Michigan when the dean had thrown him out—he'd tuned into the news one night to hear that the first international speedcubing event had taken place in Budapest. He'd watched eagerly as they'd shown the breathtaking speed with which the cubist solved the puzzle—a mindblowing 38 seconds flat. After that, public interest had slowly waned over the years. Only a handful of competitions had ever been held since then—though he'd not once had the opportunity to attend one.

He hadn't really minded. His medical career had soared off to a great start despite the dismissal from Hopkins and he hadn't looked back. His Rubik's cube, once fondly put into use at least once a day no longer left the shoebox in the closet. His cases grew longer and harder as his practice grew and thrived. He added nephrology to his CV. Was hired and fired from Cedars-Sinai, St. Vincent's and Georgetown.

And then he'd met Stacy. She was all edges and angles and no matter which way he turned there always seemed to be a side to her he'd never anticipated. She brought out the sides of himself that he'd never known either, and he'd liked never knowing where they were going next. Within a short time, they'd meshed so seamlessly that it had been nearly impossible to know where he stopped and she began. But after the infarction—having tried and failed to reconcile her love with her deceit, he'd felt only a deep dissatisfaction. It lingered throughout his hospital stay and subsequent rehab. Unwilling—unable to communicate the depth of his pain and the destruction it wrought within him the feeling never left him.

Stacy did.

It had been during his rehab that he'd found world competitions for cubists had again resumed, and he watched endless replays of the newest methods to arise in the competitive cubing world from the safety of his couch. The Fridrich. The Roux, Corners-first and the ZZ. Each new method brought out a side of the cube that had never been seen before. Some were fast. Some were elegant. Some extensive and some simple. With halting, uneven steps balanced on crutches, he'd unearthed the cube from the shoebox in the closet. He'd played with it hour after hour; testing the weight as he twisted and turned with one eye on the clock. With time, he'd been able to regain both the speed in his fingers and his mind. The cube was distracting and healing; the desire to solve the one puzzle he still had control over was utterly freeing. He'd mastered each new approach before he'd relearned how to walk. At least with the cube, when the puzzle was solved—for a moment, for one brief instant—he could study each monochromatic side of the die and dervive pleasure from the one thing he had left.

For years, he'd been content to solve the puzzle—convinced that his soul purpose in life was to sacrifice himself and get nothing in return. He'd been poured out, nearly used up for his talent, his genius and his prowess by others, those both well-meaning and not. The one decent thing he'd had left in his life had been tainted and stripped when he'd nearly come undone in Cuddy's office the previous spring. In the days since, he'd struggled to properly identify the pieces of his life. Discovering the good and discarding the bad. The problem, he'd decided, was that he'd tried to make them all fit on one dimension when maybe he'd never been one dimensional. After the infarction, after Stacy; the size of his world had smalled until everything revolved around the puzzle. It had taken time in Mayfield to remember that meaning was not only found in the solution to life's puzzles. Nolan had shown him that he needed to stop focusing on the solution and step back to see what had been created on all three dimensions.

He'd very nearly not come. He'd found the cube once more after moving into the loft, and remembered for the first time the vow he had made to attend a cubing event if he ever had the chance. He'd wavered for a long while; he hated crowds and didn't like to be away from home. But he remembered the feel of the cube in his hand and the pull of the challenge to beat the clock. So in the end—he'd conned Wilson into a ride to the airport and hied himself to Philly. The World Cube Association had finally come to the US, and he'd reserved a spot six months in advance. Standing now at the back of the room, he fingered the cube in his pocket and smiled to himself when they called his name. He was a man with a Rubik's complex. But for the first time in his life, he wasn't alone.


	3. Scare

John was okay. Blythe sank back in her chair and breathed a sigh of relief. The young doctor who had taken over John's care had settled beside her and was studying her closely. She'd spelled out John's condition; the heart arrhythmia, the slight damage done to his heart as a result. Blythe was silent for a long moment, her head spinning with all the information she'd been given.

"But he's going to be okay?" she asked again.

"He has a good prognosis. We'll continue to monitor his condition, and see how his heart rate stabilizes. And as soon as we can, we'll take him into surgery to remove the aneurysm. We'll know more by this time tomorrow. Is there anyone I can call for you?" she asked sympathetically, and Blythe smiled at her for the first time.

"I should call my son."

"I'd be happy to talk to him for you." She said, rising to her feet. "I can explain everything we're doing for your husband, if you'd like."

"Oh, that would be wonderful. My son is a doctor, too. I'm sure he'd appreciate hearing it from you. I can never give him enough information."

"I'd be happy to do that." The doctor rose to her feet, and Blythe accompanied her to a small conference room. Blythe dug out her cell phone, and scrolled through the numbers before selecting one. She entered it into the speaker phone, and waited patiently while it rang, and rang, and rang.

"Let me try his office at the hospital." Blythe scrolled through her phone again until she found the number she wanted and held it out for her to see.

"Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital?" she asked absently while she dialed.

"Yes. My son is the head of Diagnostic Medicine." Blythe said proudly.

The young doctor hung up the phone abruptly, and turned to stare at her in astonishment. "Your son is Dr. House."

"Yes!" Blythe was beaming. "Do you know him?"

"No, I've never met him. But he's very well known. I've read most of his articles." She began to dial again, heart pounding.

"I'm sure he'll be happy to talk to you about them." Blythe smiled sadly as the phone rang once-and was abruptly snatched up before it could ring again.

"Hello?" a voice whispered, and Blythe beamed.

"James! It's Blythe. How are you?"

"I'm okay, is everything all right? How did you know to call here?" James was whispering.

"I need to talk to Greg. It's about John. He's had a heart attack. I tried calling him at home but he's not answering."

"Is John okay?"

"Yes, but the doctor has some things she needs to tell Greg. Is he there?"

"Yes. House—Greg's sleeping. He's been up the last two days straight with a patient." James was still whispering, and Blythe smiled. "Give me a couple minutes, and I'll get him up for you."

"Okay." She said softly.

James set the phone down, and moved to rouse his friend. Blythe could hear low murmuring in the background, and Greg's grunt when he got out of his chair and put weight on his bad leg. She could hear his shortened steps to the phone and then his familiar voice was in her ear.

"Mom? What happened? Are you okay?" his voice was gravelly, and while Blythe regretted waking him, she felt relieved to hear his voice.

"I'm fine, honey. Dad had a heart attack."

"Is he okay? Where are you?"

"We're at the hospital in Clearwater. I'm fine. Dad's….well, his doctor can explain it all much better than I can, I'm sure." Blythe nodded at her, and the young doctor smiled bravely.

"Dr. House—I'm Michelle Kelley. It's an honor to talk to you."

"Yeah, yeah. What's happening with my dad?" he demanded impatiently.

"He suffered a myocardial infarction. According to the EMTs he was tachycardic before flat lining. We were able to restart his heart. He's doing as well as can be expected, however, we'll need to do a bypass. Is there a history of aneurysms in your family?"

There was a long pause, and then Dr. House spoke again, faintly. "Yes. I suffered an infarction ten years ago. As for extended family, I don't recall anyone else. Is he conscious? How extensive was the damage?"

"Not at this time. He's intubated, and awaiting the first OR. We're not sure how extensive the damage is at this time, but I can tell you there is close to ninety percent occlusion to the coronary artery."

Dr. House sighed deeply, and she fell silent. "What time is he scheduled for surgery?"

"Six tomorrow morning. It was the first OR we could book. He is stable for the moment." she reiterated.

He sighed again, and Blythe sniffled, despite her best effort not to. "Let me get my patient stabilized and I'll be on the next flight out. Is Aunt Sarah around, Mom? Can she stay with you until I get there?"

"Yes, I'm sure she'll come."

"I'll be there as soon as I can." He promised gruffly, and then he hung up.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dr. Gregory House was a world renowned diagnostician. Respected, if not well liked, he was infamous for his ability to think outside the box. Most people considered it one of life's ironies that House had been misdiagnosed repeatedly with his infarction. The kind of medicine he argued so vehemently against was that which had cost him his mobility. Kelley could remember hearing about House; his practice, his articles, his contributions to medicine. For years now, House had been sought at the highest price for conferences and consultations. But now, only the patients with the most unique cases were ever seen; he never went to conferences, and rarely published any more. Kelley studied him as he limped slowly down the hall. She had no doubt that if his parents hadn't lived in her small little town she'd have gone the whole of her career without ever seeing him. She was proud of her accomplishments; she'd worked hard to become a doctor. She was humble enough to admit to herself that her small ER practice was simply not going to attract the attention of a world-renowned diagnostician.

Unless his parents lived in the same town, she admitted wryly to herself.

He seemed tired, she decided. Of course, even without a medical degree someone could put together a man who hadn't slept in two days wouldn't look very good. His deep blue eyes were red-rimmed and half-lidded, and he leaned very heavily on his cane. Another man walked beside him, carrying two duffle bags, a backpack and two laptop cases. His dress shirt was rumpled and his hair was mussed. A fellow, perhaps, she thought to herself. And it hardly seemed as though Dr. House could carry his own luggage with the cane. Her theory went out the window when the other man stopped to hug Blythe, and she kissed his cheek fondly before turning to her son and hugging him as well.

"Are you Dr. House?" she asked, and he nodded, impatiently. The man beside him spoke up, holding out a hand.

"James Wilson. I'm a—friend of the family."

"I'm Dr. Kelley." She shook James' hand warmly and smoothly handed Dr. House his father's chart. His blue eyes widened, but he took it wordlessly and limped over to sit on one of the couches. His mother joined him, watching anxiously as he flipped through the pages of labs, the EKG and the MRI. He read through the ER report as well, bouncing the cane absently. His pager beeped, and he pulled it off his belt and held it out to the man beside him without looking at it.

"Tell me they have good news." He said in a low voice.

"It says: US confirmed."

Dr. House looked annoyed as he reached for his cell phone and threw that at his friend as well. "Call them and tell them they can go home."

"Anything else, master?" he asked dryly.

"Tell them I'm putting you in charge of the DDX."

"Me? Why me?"

"Because very shortly she's going to be your patient."

"You came to that conclusion because of a positive ultrasound? That you didn't order?" Wilson looked incredulous. Kelley felt much the same way; she'd been right on both counts. So it was Dr. Wilson, then.

"No, I came to that conclusion because they only would have done an ultrasound if the CT had been negative. She has uterine cancer." Dr. Wilson opened his mouth to say something, only to find his cell ringing.

"Wilson." He said calmly. "Yes, I know. He just told me. Well, since I don't have the chart in front of me….let me check. Is she terminal?" he asked bluntly.

"How insensitive do you think I am?" Dr. House pretended to be mortified. "Besides," he added in a falsely conciliatory tone, "I'm not an oncologist. I can hardly be expected to interpret the results and figure out if a patient is—"

"No." Dr. Wilson told the caller while glaring at his friend. Kelley hid a smile. "I don't think she's terminal. I want Andrews to take her case. Tell him to talk to Cameron, and get her moved up onto the floor." He hung up abruptly, and tucked his phone back in his pocket. Kelley was certain that there were a lot of things he wanted to say to his colleague, but he settled for throwing his pager back at him. Sighing, Dr. House caught it reflexively and clipped it to his belt again before returning his attention to the file. He looked up, meeting Kelley's eyes with his own piercing blue gaze. "He's in recovery now?" he asked sharply, and she nodded tightly.

"The surgeon had no trouble removing the clot. He's been stable, and the arrhythmia seems to have corrected itself. If anything, he's a touch bradycardic. We're continuing to monitor him, and we're correcting the imbalance with electrolytes." Kelley watched as Dr. House rubbed his eyes tiredly. He'd been awake for two days, she knew, and dealing with his father's heart attack was probably the last thing he'd wanted to do.

"Good." He said simply, and squeezed his mother's hand. She smiled then, looking relieved.

"Have you slept, Blythe?" James asked.

"No, I haven't been able to sleep. I want to see John again before I leave." She looked teary, and James smiled reassuringly.

"It'll be a few hours until he's out of recovery." Kelley spoke up, smiling herself. "There are some pretty comfortable couches in here, and there's a bunch of vending machines down on 2nd floor." She rose then, and grinned as Wilson dropped his luggage on the nearest couch. "I'll let you know as soon as he's ready to go back down on the floor."

"Thank you." James called, and she nodded warmly as she slipped from the room.

Six hours later, she wound her way back down the hall to the lounge. She'd managed to find enough time on her own to mainline some coffee and she'd closely monitored her patient's condition. John House's surgery had gone well; he had responded well to the post-op questions, and seemed fully oriented. She'd even gone so far as to supervise his transfer from the post-op room back to a private on the cardiac floor—unprecedented, she supposed; but justified given his son's reputation in the medical community. The cardiac surgeon had railed against her presence, but he'd been paged away in the end and she'd considered the matter settled. She looked forward to telling his wife—and son, that he was going to be just fine. Pushing the door to the lounge open, she grinned to see Dr. Wilson sitting Indian-style in one of the chairs with a laptop on his knees. Looking up, he caught her eye and smiled, just a little. Dr. House was sprawled on his left side on one of the couches, he was clearly exhausted. His right knee was propped up on a couple of pillows. He was breathing slowly and shallowly, but she couldn't tell if he was asleep or not. Blythe House was on the couch opposite her son; she looked up with hope in her eyes when Kelley entered, and she couldn't stop herself from smiling.

"He's awake, and doing very well." She said, and watched as Blythe rose to her feet. "He's been moved to room 312."

Dr. Wilson rose as well, setting his laptop on the table. "How is the bradycardia?" he asked quietly.

"His potassium levels are still a little on the high side." She confessed. "We're still giving electrolytes by IV to try and correct the imbalance."

"I think you should go see him, Blythe." Dr. Wilson told her quietly. "I'll get House up and moving, and we'll meet you down there."

"Maybe Greg should sleep." Blythe looked worried; he hadn't moved at all since Kelley had come in and he was normally a very light sleeper.

"He will, after we've seen John . We'll get some breakfast and go back to your house and sleep all day." He grinned at her, and Blythe smiled back. "Go on down, I need to talk to Dr. Kelley here for a moment."

Blythe nodded and walked quickly into the hall. When he was certain she was out of earshot, spoke in a low voice.

"Have you run a PET scan to see if he's potentially got another clot?"

"No, he's on Warfarin and clot busters. His cardiac status doesn't warrant any further investigation for the--"

"He's stable?" Dr. Wilson interrupted, and Kelley decided that he hadn't slept in two days either.

"He's stable." She repeated, and touched his shoulder gently. "We'll take good care of him."

Dr. Wilson smiled sheepishly, and nodded. He slowly moved over to Dr. House and shook his shoulder. "House. Your dad's out of recovery."

Dr. House woke with a start, shifting on the couch and giving a pained grunt that he couldn't entirely suppress. He didn't try to get up, and Dr. Wilson sighed deeply before he rummaged in a crumpled jacket pocket for an amber pill bottle, which he tossed to the other man.

"Giving me drugs, Jimmy?" he asked coldly. He eyed his friend cautiously before popping the top and tapping out two pills. He threw them in his mouth and swallowed them dry, snapping the lid back on. Kelley watched, uncomfortably aware that she should leave but unable to do so. Luckily, neither seemed to notice.

"Muscle or nerve?" Dr. Wilson asked coolly as he began packing his laptop back into the bag. He held his hand out, and Dr. House tossed him the vial.

"Nerve." Dr. House grimaced as he sat up, using both hands to swing his leg to the floor.

"Rating?"

"Eight."

"See if the Vicodin touches it."

"It doesn't." Dr. House sighed shakily, and rubbed a hand across his face.

"Then you'll have to wait 'til we get to your mom's. You'll crash if I give it to you now." Dr. Wilson said shortly. Dr. House was struggling to get to his feet with his cane gripped firmly in both hands. He rose unsteadily and balanced awkwardly for a moment before trying to take a step. Releasing a shaky breath, Dr. House eased his foot forward tentatively; looking relieved when he didn't immediately topple over.

"Where's my mom?" he asked wearily.

"I sent her down to see him. Told her we'd be right behind her." Dr. Wilson slung the straps to the duffle bags over his shoulder and headed for the door. "We'll see him, and then we're going out for breakfast. You're buying." Wilson told him as they left the lounge.

"Why am I buying?" Dr. House demanded breathlessly. "I don't need breakfast. I need to lie down."

"You'll live 'til we get to their house." Dr. Wilson prophesied as he disappeared around the corner without looking back at his friend. Kelley winced as she watched Dr. House's expression change from pained to resigned. The change was more physical than emotional as he shifted the cane in his hand and balanced himself over his good leg. He limped slowly forward then, head bowed in exhaustion and defeat as he vanished from her sight. When they'd come in earlier that morning, she had assumed that James Wilson was first a fellow only to find he was a friend. She'd thought him a very good friend, too; helping carry everything for his disabled friend and accompanying him to the hospital on short notice. Now, she decided, he wasn't so much a packmule as a jackass.


	4. Heartache

The night he'd lost Amber, he'd longed to die with her. Some part of him had remained with her when the machines had been turned off, when the vibrant blue of her eyes had closed to him forever. He'd felt the cold creeping in to settle in his bones even as it leeched the warmth away from her. In the days that followed, meeting her parents, attending her funeral, going through her belongings; he'd felt disconnected, hollow. Half of himself had been lost with Amber that night, ripped away cruelly by circumstance. The remaining half had been split between anger and grief; glimmers of madness interspersed with his sadness. Cuddy had been tremendously supportive of him, authorizing his leave of absence and granting his request for vacation without question. He'd returned her hug hollowly, releasing her and leaving her office without looking back.

"Take all the time you need." She'd told him, squeezing his hand gently. So he'd gone on vacation, visited his parents and his brother in New York. He'd spent time with his niece and nephews; spent days in Central Park and in the museums and at street carnivals carrying goldfish in baggies. He'd even considered staying in New York. He'd gone so far as to send his CV to one or two hospitals, even gone to an interview. Maybe it was time to move on.

His life in Princeton was all but forgotten except when he was alone, at night. In his dreams he saw her, more beautiful than he remembered with her blonde hair shining in the warmth of his memory. She beckoned to him from a long, dark hallway. He tried to reach for her, only to find her behind him. Her hand on his back, guiding him in. He'd turned in surprise, reached for her hand only to find she was standing before him once more.

"What are you doing?" he asked finally, biting his lip.

"You need to go back." She said simply.

"Why?" he let his fingers settle on her porcelain skin, brushed her cheek gently.

"House." She said simply.

"He doesn't matter any more." He told her, feeling her skin cool almost imperceptibly beneath his fingertips. He met her blue eyes steadily, feeling his loneliness well in him until he ached all over. Her eyes narrowed, she studied him coldly.

"I know you don't mean that."

"I do. House is fine. He can look out for himself."

"Then you're not the man I thought you were." Amber turned away, and Wilson jumped to stop her. He put a hand on her arm, and turned her to face him.

"Don't." she whispered. He cupped her cheek gently, and caught his breath. She refused to look at him, and Wilson bit his lip. "Don't leave me." He begged quietly. She turned to him then, and Wilson caught his breath sharply as Amber's blue eyes changed; they deepened, aged, and yellowed. Jaundice.

House.

"He needs you." Amber told him distantly, and Wilson stumbled away from her and down into the darkened hallway. House. He had to get to House.

"Jim?" a hand shook his shoulder, a weight sank down on the bed. He opened his eyes to find his brother peering down at him in concern. The bedside light was on, and warm yellow light spilled onto the bed. He shivered then, brought his hand up to wipe at his eyes. Tears dampened his cheeks, and he rubbed at them self consciously. In the doorway, David's family lingered. He hadn't meant to wake everyone. Feeling embarrassed, he took a deep breath to calm himself.

"You okay?" David asked, and he nodded after a moment.

"Yeah." He sat up, and reached for his phone. "I need to check on a friend of mine."

House wasn't home. He wasn't answering his cell, nor his office phone. Wilson chewed on his lip, contemplating House's whereabouts. It was possible he was screening his calls; but Wilson felt confident he'd have at least acknowledged Wilson's frantic, half-panicked call regardless of how things had been left between them. He'd stammered out a message for House to call and let him know if he was all right. He set his phone back on the table slowly, noting it was just past four. If he hadn't heard from House by seven, he decided he'd try Cuddy. There was little sense in trying to go back to sleep. Rising, Wilson slid from bed and pulled his robe on before making his way to the kitchen. Not surprisingly, the lights were on and David was waiting for him.

"Tea." He pointed to the stove, where the tea was steeping. "I almost made coffee, but I figured it was the last thing you needed."

"Thanks." Wilson poured himself a cup before settling at the table. He dunked the bag a few times before fishing it out and stirring in sugar.

"Want to tell me what that was about?" David asked idly.

"I realized I did a shitty thing." Wilson admitted.

"By running away?" David asked.

Wilson felt his head come up abruptly. He nodded reluctantly, feeling embarrassed again. "I didn't realize it was so obvious." He said bitterly. He sipped at his tea, and toyed with the string.

"In the ten years I've lived here, you've never come to see me." David told him honestly. "You've never taken time off of work, never spent time with my kids. You didn't even like taking time off to see Mom and Dad."

Wilson opened his mouth to refute the argument, but paused before he spoke, slumping deeper into the chair. "I know."

"Now all of a sudden you take two months off and leave everything. Your patients, your friends and your job. You even put in for a couple positions up here." David shook his head. "I know Amber meant a lot to you. She must have been an amazing woman."

Wilson stared at him as he spoke of Amber in the past tense, but let it slide.

"She was." He said softly.

"She did something none of your wives managed to accomplish. She got you to put yourself first in a relationship." David drained the dregs of his tea, and rose to put the cup in the sink. "Now you're so focused on yourself you're not paying attention to anyone else."

David left him then, and Wilson stared forlornly into the dimly lit kitchen

"Wilson." Foreman greeted. "House isn't here."

"He's not home either." Wilson sighed loudly. "Where is he?"

"I can't—"

"Foreman." Wilson sighed again, and rubbed his forehead. "It's me. Please." He begged, and bit his lip. Foreman was silent for a long moment, and then Wilson could hear him shuffle his paperwork.

"He's in recovery. He had a pacemaker inserted this morning."

"What? Why?"

"He had three cardiac arrests in less than a decade. He had some myocyte damage; arrhythmias that didn't resolve with electrolytes."

"Damn." Wilson sank down on the couch, cradling the phone.

"He looks good, surgery went well. He's going to the floor within the hour."

"Any sign of damage from the DBS?" Wilson asked quietly.

"Aside from some aphasia, he seems fine. No sign of seizures beyond the intial complex partial. The aphasia is slight, he'll sometimes substitute a word that sounds like the one he's looking for. No other sign of neurological impairment."

That was good news at least.

"What about the brain bleed?"

"CT was clean. Still some residual swelling in his temporal lobe, and the break widened in his ear canal. He didn't indicate any change in his hearing. He's been staying with Cuddy, and she didn't mention anything about it either. It's knitting well."

He'd been staying with Cuddy?

"He's staying with Cuddy?" he asked dumbly, and rolled his eyes when Foreman snorted.

"He couldn't go home alone." Unspoken, Wilson knew was, 'and you weren't around to take him home.'

"Why not?"

"He had a concussion, a heart attack and an experimental brain surgery that caused him to seize before lapsing into a coma for ten hours. Upon waking, he had some aphasia and heart arrhythmias on top of a pre-existing chronic condition. Sure, he could have gone home alone. Might not have been able to call for help if he needed it, or if he went into cardiac arrest again. But, yeah, he could've gone home." Foreman snorted in derision, and Wilson felt his heart sink. Put that way, all of House's injuries laid out so casually caused the knife in Wilson's heart to twist a little deeper. Amber's voice whispered in his mind that if he didn't care, he wasn't the man she thought he'd been. The thought of disappointing her, even in death, spurred him to speak.

"I'll be there soon." He promised, and heard Foreman push his chair back.

"Don't make promises you won't keep." He said coolly, and hung up.

Foreman had, predictably, notified Cuddy of his pending arrival. Probably as soon as he'd hung up. She was waiting for him at the front desk. She looked stern, but sympathetic as she motioned him into her office. He followed numbly; sinking onto the couch as she closed the door behind them.

"I want to see him." Wilson said firmly.

"I know. I just want to know why." Cuddy sank down opposite him and crossed her legs gracefully.

"I…I don't blame him. I just couldn't deal with him. I needed some time."

"He thinks you do blame him. He thinks you hate him."

"He said that?" Wilson knew he looked surprised.

"I don't think he meant to. He was dreaming."

Wilson sighed heavily. "I don't."

"I know." Cuddy leaned forward, and held out her laptop. House's chart was on the screen. "You need to read this before you see him. He almost lost everything."

"I know." Wilson took the laptop from her, and set it down on the coffee table. He looked up at her steadily. "How is he?"

"He's holding his own. He was hoping he wouldn't need the pacemaker—"

"I didn't mean how he's doing." He gestured at the laptop, unable to find the words. "How is he?"

"Depressed. He's—not the same as he was. He's been very quiet."

Wilson nodded, he'd expected it. He settled the laptop in his lap and reclined, opening to House's chart. Cuddy rose then, and left him to read in her office. He'd somberly read through his labs—his blood pressure had fluctuated as his heart rate had risen and fallen; they'd had him on blood pressure meds to try and control his intracranial pressure so he wouldn't herniate. He'd been lethargic and withdrawn while in the ICU, not speaking unless he was prompted. They'd feared brain damage, but he'd passed all neurological tests with flying colors. He was miserable and lonely. He wasn't feeling well. His best friend hadn't come to see him. Cuddy had released him into her personal care; deciding she'd rather risk House's health than his fragile state of mind. She'd documented all of the care he'd received while he'd stayed with her in his chart, and had brought him back in two weeks later to undergo the pacemaker plant. The sound of the door clicking open caught his attention, and then Cuddy was back. He set the laptop down on the coffee table and rose to follow her silently. She led him out to the elevators, and punched the button for the fourth floor when they'd stepped inside. Down the hall, Wilson drifted quietly. He felt everyone's eyes on him; House's staff, his own. His staff seemed to pity him; House's appeared angry on his behalf. No one said anything, and Cuddy led him to room 402. She slid the door open to reveal a darkened room with the blinds drawn. He took a deep breath, and followed her in.

House was sleeping, he discerned quickly. He was plugged into the cardiac monitors, and Wilson's eyes flicked to the monitors instinctively. He was stable; pressure 110/72, heart rate at 74 and steady. Oxygenation good, sats were in normal range. He looked comfortable, if tired. He winced at the sight of the dressing on House's chest, but satisfied that he wasn't going anywhere for the time being. Cuddy flicked a light on, and checked the nurse's notes to find House's last vitals check. She made a note for his next painkiller and set the chart aside before reaching out to squeeze his left foot.

"House?" she called. He shifted, blinking tiredly as he woke. "Hey, sleeping beauty. Time to wake up." She teased.

"Glad you noticed I'm beautiful." He mumbled sleepily. Wilson smiled despite himself.

"How are you feeling?" she asked gently.

"Okay." He said softly.

"Any pain?"

House blinked at her steadily, looking tired. Cuddy stretched up to brush his cheek, and he blinked again, hard. "House? Any pain?" she asked again. He shook his head after a moment, and Cuddy motioned to Wilson. Her movement caught his eye, and House turned his head to look at him slowly.

"Hi." Wilson said softly. House said nothing, closed his eyes. Cuddy brushed his cheek again, and House's eyes popped open.

"Aren't you going to say hi to Wilson?" she prompted.

"He's not here." House mumbled, and Cuddy smiled sadly.

"I'm here." Wilson said softly. He reached down and put a hand on House's leg. House blinked at him in surprise; the anesthesia lending him a vulnerability Wilson hadn't seen since Stacy had left. "You doing okay?"

House nodded after a moment, looking shocked. Cuddy cleared her throat, and addressed House again.

"The pacemaker plant went well. No sign of arrythymias, and your lab work is normal. I think you'll be able to be released in the morning. Do—" she paused, biting her lip. "Do you want to go home?"

House rubbed his eyes; let his hand fall heavily back to the bed.

"I don't know." He mumbled, eyelashes fluttering as he struggled to stay awake.

"You don't have to decide now." Cuddy told him gently. House nodded against the pillow, his eyes closing as the anesthesia took him under again. Wilson let his hand linger on House's good leg for a long while, as he and Cuddy watched him sleep. Finally, Wilson patted his leg and let go. Cuddy motioned him out into the hall and slid the door closed.

"Now you've seen him." She said simply. Lifting her chin, she met his gaze steadily. "Go away and decide what you want to do. You're either a part of his life, or you're not. He needs you to decide." Still holding House's chart, Cuddy stalked toward the nurse's desk and left Wilson standing quietly outside House's room.


	5. Pin Drop

Wilson sighed deeply as he paused in his research, rubbing his neck to ease the kinks. A glance at his watch confirmed the late hour, and he shook his head wryly. He spared a glance for House, who was sitting across the aisle and found him still sleeping. For all his complaining about trips, House usually slept like the dead on the plane. Conferences weren't something House usually did, any more, as traveling was difficult for him. He was somewhat unsteady on his feet at home, at times, and flying, in particular, meant a lot of time on his feet. Walking to and from terminals. Long hours spent in a cramped seat with no way to stretch his leg out or prop it up. As a general rule, House avoided work like the plague. Unless, as Stacy had once pointed out, it was the plague.

But Cuddy had been approached by several conference organizers and had eventually caved, forcing House to attend the conference as a key note speaker. In concession, she'd agreed to let Wilson accompany him (to keep an eye on him) and upgraded their flight to first class (to minimize the bitching) and arranged for them to have an interconnected suite with an in-room hot tub (to silence House's complaint that he was in too much pain to work).

The plane banked slightly to the right, and Wilson sighed again as the seat belt sign blinked on. He silently saved his work, and began powering down the laptop as the pilot made the announcement that they were descending into Los Angeles. He stowed his laptop just as the flight attendant woke House, and made him bring his seat upright again. House scowled at her, but sat up anyway, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"What time is it?" he asked around a yawn.

"Nearly midnight, local time."

"So, it's what, three in the morning back at home?"

"Think so." Wilson hid a smile, House's hair was wild from his nap and he looked scruffier than normal. "Past your bedtime, huh?"

House glared at him. "I've been up for the past two days. Everything's past my bedtime at this point." He put his head back against the seat and closed his eyes again. "Wake me when we land." He instructed sleepily.

They'd landed quickly, and only taxied for a few minutes before pulling into the terminal. Wilson had powered his cell phone back on, but made no move to rise from his seat. House hadn't either, though he'd opened his eyes and sat up once they'd touched down. He, too, turned his cell back on and began scrolling through the screen, apparently checking messages. Wilson couldn't hear him over the low murmur of passengers de-planing, but he could see House's lips move every once in a while. Wilson returned his attention to the passengers, watching as the plane slowly emptied. One of the flight attendants made an appearance then, pushing a wheelchair in front of her. House rose obediently to his feet, still arguing with someone (either Foreman or Cuddy, Wilson wasn't sure) and slipped into the chair. Wilson shook his head as he rose; House had predictably left him to grab their carry on luggage on his own.

He quickly gathered their things and followed House out into the terminal. He finally hung up on whoever it was he'd been talking to, and scowled up at Wilson.

"Kids giving you problems?" Wilson asked unsympathetically. His own department was staffed well enough that almost no one called him with questions. Or at least, they were usually questions Wilson himself couldn't answer, and ended up deferring to House.

Actually, Wilson decided, that was probably the only reason people called him. No one else wanted to deal with House.

"They took another case. Cuddy's already suicidal." House told him.

"At least you're out of her hair." Wilson pointed out, and ignored the dirty look House gave him. The flight attendant moved aside, and a sky cap took over pushing House down to the baggage claim. House levered himself out of the seat, and stood, awkwardly while Wilson retrieved his cane. The skycap set the wheelchair aside, and took up a luggage cart, following them dutifully out to their rental. House collapsed in the passenger seat while Wilson threw their carry-ons into the back seat and the skycap filled the trunk.

Wilson drove silently to the hotel and unloaded most of their luggage while House struggled out of the passenger seat and limped into the lobby. House checked them in, and started down the hall to the elevator. When they reached the room, Wilson watched as House stumbled into his side of the room and flopped bonelessly down on the bed. He didn't move when they dropped his luggage in his room, nor when Wilson changed and moved out to turn the tv on.

"House, you awake?" he called absently, as he inspected the mini-bar. House didn't respond, and Wilson dragged himself into House's room and flopped down on the bed beside him. "You okay?" he asked quietly. House nodded, and rolled onto his side to look up at Wilson blearily.

"Yeah." He said faintly.

"You take the vicodin?"

"Before we got off the plane." House's voice was strained, his hands were knotted into fists. He was breathing shallowly.

"Not working?"

"No."

"Muscle or nerve?" he asked after a moment of silence.

"Nerve." House grunted. He grabbed a pillow and pulled it over his head, releasing a shaky breath.

"What if I help you into the shower?" Wilson asked. "Let the hot water loosen it up?"

"Yeah, okay." Wilson let House sit up, and then helped him limp into the bathroom. He set him on the lid of the toilet while he started the shower, let it run while House stripped out of his t-shirt.

"Need help?" he asked, and held his hands up placatingly when House glared at him. "Okay, okay. I'll be outside if you need anything."

Wilson backed out of the bathroom, but left the door ajar. In case House needed something.

He returned to the mini-bar and pulled out a bottle of beer before sinking down in front of the screen. He'd no sooner popped the cap off when House's cell rang. He groaned then, rising to his feet stiffly and grabbing it out of House's coat pocket.

"Wilson." He said, taking another swig of beer. There was a long pause, and then Cameron squawked; "It's me. Is House there?"

"He's in the shower. What's up?"

"I—" Cameron's hesitation was obvious, and Wilson rubbed the bridge of his nose in irritation. "We were traveling for over seven hours. His leg hurts. What. Do. You. Want?"

"Does the hotel have a fax? She finally asked, and Wilson mentally reviewed the accommodations in his head. "I would think so?" he said after a moment.

"I need to fax over the chart for him, I think. He'll get impatient, Foreman'll get irritated, Chase'll say something stupid, and we won't get his feedback until tomorrow morning."

"And you need it now." Wilson supplied, sighing. "Can you let him get a couple hours of sleep first?"

"Patient's hemodynamically compromised. We need something fast."

Wilson rolled his eyes. Despite Foreman's arrogance, he wasn't as adept as House was at problem solving. There was a reason that House was a world renowed diagnostician. And there was a reason, Wilson knew, that Cameron was calling instead of the others.

Well. At least Foreman was smart enough to know when not to antagonize his boss.

"I'll let the front desk know. And House, as soon as he's out of the shower." Wilson promised, and Cameron reluctantly hung up. He flipped the phone shut, and tossed it on the table. When House emerged, he joined Wilson silently in their joined space and gingerly sat down on the couch.

"Shower help?" Wilson asked, without taking his eyes off the screen.

"Yeah." House sounded exhausted; he was utterly boneless on the couch. His eyes fluttered closed involuntarily and he struggled to open them as he lifted his leg onto the table before him. Wilson watched as House leaned back into the cushions, staring at the tv screen blankly. His eyes fluttered closed once, twice, and then the third time they stayed closed as he gave into his exhaustion with a soft sigh. Wilson remained silent and still for five minutes, watching as the commercials came to an end, and the infomercial resumed. House's breathing changed, slowing, deepening into the regular rhythm of sleep. He rose, slowly, and leaned over House to pick up his legs and guide them onto the couch. He kept his light grasp on House's right ankle, and slipped a pillow under his knee. Moving silently into House's room, he tugged a blanket off the bed and draped it over House. Setting the remote on the table, he snagged House's cell and checked to see that he had his own before he headed for his side of the suite.

Cameron had been predictably angry that he hadn't woken House immediately and let him know about their patient. Wilson fielded complaints from Cameron, Foreman and later, Cuddy about letting House sleep. But he'd refused to relent until House had slept for at least a couple of hours. He'd called down to the lobby, and arranged for the fax to be brought up when it arrived, and called room service for coffee.

He woke House at a little after four am local time; it was nearly seven back in Princeton. He'd handed House the faxed chart, a cup of coffee and his vicodin. Aside from sitting up, House hadn't moved any more than was absolutely necessary, and Wilson resigned himself to the fact that the remainder of the conference was going to be hell. Leaving House to work, Wilson trudged back to his own room and threw himself onto the bed for a few hours of sleep. The case would keep House occupied for a while, at least. Then, of course, they could look forward to the tedious hours and hours of pretentious, arrogant physicians making small talk and pretending that their work in the field of medicine was better than everyone else's.

Oh, joy.

When Wilson woke, it was nearly ten am. He stared blearily at his travel alarm for a long moment, struggling to remember where he was. Oh, right. The Infectious Disease conference.

House.

Wilson slid out of bed and stretched, stiffly before moving out into the common room. House was asleep on the couch again, his cell phone cradled in his lap. The chart had fallen from his hand and scattered on the floor, but Wilson let it lie for the time being. He ran a hand through his hair wearily as he shook House's shoulder.

"House. C'mon, get up. The first speaker is at 11:30, and we need to get over there for breakfast."

House groaned as he sat up, pushing the blankets down. He picked up his vicodin and shook out two tablets; dry swallowed them.

"You get it all worked out with the kids?" Wilson asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee. It was lukewarm, but he swallowed it anyway. House scrunched his nose up in disgust as he swung his feet to the floor.

"Gave them some tests to run. Eveyrthing's inconclusive." House rubbed his eyes tiredly, but made no move to get up.

"I need a shower." Wilson sighed, and then turned and headed for his own room. By the time he finished showering and dressing, he found House still on the couch in the common room. He hadn't dressed. He probably hadn't even gotten up. He was playing absently with the remote, and he met Wilson's eyes furtively.

"Not going?" Wilson asked mildly. He could see House's leg spasming from half way across the room. He sighed to himself, feeling helpless. House wasn't scheduled to speak until Friday. As a keynote speaker, he was giving a lecture on the nature of infectious disease and citing some of his own well-known work in diagnostics. Maybe by Friday, he might be able to stand up and give a speech. He hoped, anyway. He nodded in understanding. "You should call in room service. Get something to eat."

"Yeah." House agreed absently, leaning back into the cushions and turning the sound up. Wilson pulled the phone over to the table beside the couch and set it down, holding the receiver out for him. House took it, reluctantly, and dialed the operator. Wilson left quietly to head for the front desk, where he left a note for the room service delivery to open the door so House wouldn't have to get up.

Moving down into the lobby, Wilson crossed to a check in table and waited, patiently behind the doctors in front of him.

"Jim? Jim Wilson?" a woman's voice called to him, delighted, and Wilson turned to find an attractive brunette rushing over to greet him. "It's been forever! Do you remember me?"

"Anna?" He smiled as she grinned at him, hugging him happily. He returned the hug, and pushed her out to arm's length as he moved up in line. "I haven't seen you since med school. You look great."

"You haven't changed at all." Anna said fondly.

"Name please?" the young intern manning the check-in table looked irritated for even having to ask.

"James Wilson." He said to the bored looking young intern. The kid nodded, and held out a clipboard for him to fill out before turning to rifle through a bin with nametags.

"It's been forever, Anna." He said, smiling. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here for the same reason everyone else is. Dr. House is speaking for the first time in ages. I think I read somewhere he hasn't done a conference here in the US in like ten years—I just want to be able to say that I saw him." Anna smiled warmly as the intern held out Wilson's laminated name tag and reached to take the clipboard from him. When James refused to relinquish his grip on it, her expression became quizzical.

"I need to check a friend of mine in, too." Wilson held onto the clipboard. "Gregory House."

"All participants have to check themselves in." the kid shook his head.

"He's not going to be able to come down today." Wilson explained. "He's not feeling well."

The kid eyed him again, shaking his head, and Wilson sighed loudly. "He's a very ill man. He's not feeling well enough to come down here." His voice rose, and attracted the attention of one of the conference organizers.

"Is there a problem?" she asked as she quickly crossed to the table.

"Yes." Wilson said firmly. "Dr. House is a colleague of mine, and he asked me to check him in this morning."

"We do prefer that all participants check—"

"So I've been told. Dr. House is not feeling well. He's not up to coming down here this morning." Wilson gathered the shreds of his patience as the organizer nodded.

"I'm sorry to hear that." She said quietly. "If it's at all possible—" she began, and Wilson's eyes flashed in fury.

"Dr. House has a chronic condition. He's not feeling well this morning, and I see no reason why I can't check him in, pick up his schedule and bring him all the information he would receive as a regular attendee of this conference. I know it might look better to everyone attending if he was interacting with his colleagues, but given his condition this morning, he'll be lucky to speak on Friday. Believe it or not, there's a medically justifiable reason why Dr. House opts out of conferences." Wilson said wryly. He took a deep breath, and tried to give her a charming smile. The conference organizer returned his smile, slowly. "Of course." She said sweetly. "I apologize. We were made aware of Dr. House's limitations, and we're more than happy to do whatever we can to accommodate him."

Wilson nodded at her and scrawled House's name on the checklist and set the clipboard down. Reaching into a bin behind him, the kid quickly pulled out his name badge and House's scheduled conference times. House was scheduled to speak after two on Friday. They'd been signed up for a one workshop this morning and another in the afternoon, but Wilson was relieved to see that Cuddy had built some down time into their schedule, too. House couldn't handle being in one position for terribly long, and Wilson knew he'd get up and pace the auditorium if he thought he needed to. Or he'd sleep through the presentation. Both were likely to happen, especially given House's already precarious condition. There was also the possibility that House would remain in seclusion until it was his time to speak. He supposed he couldn't blame him. He slid House's nametag into his pocket, and slid a finger between his stuff and House's. Anna eyed him surrepitously.

"You're a friend of. Dr. House's?" she asked.

Wilson nodded, meeting her gaze steadily. He groaned, inwardly, when she asked if he would introduce them.

"No." he said gently. "House really isn't feeling well. And he's trying to direct his team on a case back home."

"Why'd he come to the conference if he's dealing with a difficult patient?" Anna asked.

"House doesn't need to see the patient to diagnose them. It's actually better if he never meets the patient." Wilson said wryly. "He's not the guy everyone says he is. And he's not up to meeting anyone right now."

Anna nodded slowly, and allowed Wilson to steer the conversation away from House. Anna led him through the maze of tables and to a table where colleagues of her own were seated. She introduced them, and Wilson shook hands before seating himself. Anna, to her credit said nothing of House, nor of Wilson's friendship with him. For that, he was grateful.

He'd enjoyed meeting Anna's colleagues. They'd been suitably impressed by his position as the head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsborough, and he'd talked his way around his friendship with House, leaving them with the impression that he knew of the man but little else. Breakfast had been uneventful, and Anna's colleagues had scattered to seek out their own meetings. Wilson had thumbed through his schedule, and checked his watch before rising.

"What time is your first conference?" Anna asked lightly.

"Not until 11:30. I think I'm going to check on House, see if he needs anything."

"Maybe I'll see you for dinner?" Anna asked, and Wilson smiled.

"Possibly." He agreed. Anna kissed his cheek before sauntering away. He stared after her, and then shook his head. House was right. He always seemed to attract troublesome women. He left the hall quickly, crossing to the staircase and climbing the stairs two at a time. He strode briskly down the hall to the suite they'd been assigned and used his key card, opening the door quietly. The TV was still on, and House was asleep again on the couch. The tray from room service was on the coffee table, and Wilson noted that he'd at least tried to eat; the toast and eggs had been nibbled on, and the fruit had been picked at. Either the pain was bad, or the nausea was worse. Or both, he supposed wryly.

"House?" he called softly, kneeling beside the couch. House opened his eyes quickly, and sighed shakily. He hadn't been sleeping, Wilson thought sadly. "How you doing?"

"Not good." House mumbled, and Wilson felt his spirits sink.

"Vicodin not helping?" he asked quietly.

"No."

"You sleep at all?" Wilson asked, easing the blanket away from House's leg. It was a testament to how badly House felt that he let Wilson gently run his fingertips over the scar. The muscles jumped and trembled beneath his touch, and Wilson could feel several cold spots. House groaned. He sighed again, and drew the blanket back up. He rose then, crossing into his room and rummaging through his suitcase to come up with a vial of morphine and a vial of compazine, two syringes and his stethoscope. He returned to House's side and knelt beside him to administer it.

"Lay back." He instructed after he'd drawn up 25mcg of each and set the needles aside.

"Where did you--?" House asked as he lay back.

"Pharmacy." He said succinctly as he tied the tourniquet and prepped the vein. He slid the needle in, and counted out the minutes while he pushed the drug slowly. House blinked at him when he finished, and he capped the needle before reaching for the other syringe. He slowly pushed the compazine as well, watching as the combination of pain relief and the anti-emetic dropped House like a ton of bricks. His head sank back onto the pillow, and his eyes fluttered closed. Wilson finished with the second syringe and put on his stetheoscope. He listended cautiously to House's heartbeat, felt his pulse slowing as he began to metabolize the drug.

Sighing, Wilson got to his feet and covered House with the blanket he'd used earlier. Picking up his pager, Wilson sent Cuddy a brief message.

House is down.

Wilson had remained with House for another half hour, monitoring his respiration and his heart rate. Both seemed to be holding steady, and he was showing no signs of nausea, so Wilson scribbled him a note explaining that he'd gone to the conference and to text him when he got up. He'd settled into the seat nearest the door and listened attentively to the lecture on necrotizing faciitis.

Cuddy'd texted him back, asking him to keep her informed as to how he was doing. She'd also admitted that she was prepared to explain to conference organizers that House was a chronic pain patient and if Wilson as his primary felt he couldn't handle the pain they'd have to do without him.

She also told him not to mention that part to House.

House texted him toward the end of the lecture to let him know he was awake. Wilson slumped down in his seat and texted him back, letting him know that he was almost done and that he intended to swing back by before going for lunch, since neither of them had eaten much earlier. Brushing off invitations to lunch, Wilson had returned to their suite to find House still on the couch. He looked oddly childlike, with his hair wild and sticking up.

"Feel any better?" Wilson asked as he threw himself into the armchair.

"Yeah." House nodded. "Thanks."

"You up for anything this afternoon?" Wilson leaned forward and met House's eyes steadily.

"I don't know." House admitted. Wilson noticed for the first time that House was still rubbing at his thigh. Wilson sighed, heavily. With the way he was rubbing the leg, there was no way he'd be able to bear weight on it. At least not for long. Crutches would be necessary, or—even better but less likely—a wheelchair. Still…

"I bet we could find some crutches for you.." Wilson began, and winced, when House glared at him. "I know, I know, but you can't get around right now. Isn't it worth using some crutches or a wheelchair or something to get all that cash? Plus the time off from the clinic?" he hedged. House looked away, and Wilson fell silent. After a moment, House nodded stiffly.

"Chair." He said in a low voice, and met Wilson's gaze steadily. Wilson blinked. He'd expected House to take the crutches under duress, not opt for the chair. Either House wanted to put on a good show, or he was worse than he was letting on.

"Think I'll be able to squeeze them for more if I show how much I'm suffering?" he asked rhetorically. "Well," he sighed,"if not this year then next year." It was good to know House would never change. Wilson had helped him into the bathroom again, and House tried to ease the cramping with the warmth of the whirlpool bath while Wilson backtracked to the lobby and picked up a wheelchair for him. He'd selected a fairly innocuous black chair, and by the time he'd returned House had been ready for him. He'd even changed, donning a nice pair of jeans, his Nike Shox and his slate blue dress shirt. House had, once upon a time, worn suits and jackets and ties, even if they had always been askew. After his infarction, the ordeal of dressing and his own self conscious awareness of his disability limited his wardrobe to jeans and shirts. Wilson said nothing as House transferred into the wheelchair and settled himself; pulling on a pair of gloves he'd brought along, pocketing his vicodin and his cell phone. He slung his laptop case over the handles on the back of the chair. Pushing himself to the door, House pulled it open and maneuvered himself out into the hall. Wilson stepped out behind him, and both men were silent as they headed down to the elevator.

House had wheeled himself down into the main lobby and gritted his teeth, gladhanding the conference organizers and shaking hands with those brave enough to approach him. Wilson smiled, House preferred to ignore social niceties. It was good to see that he was at least capable of playing the part when necessary. Most of the wellwishers expressed concern about House's appearance in a wheelchair. Wilson had thought that he would have downplayed it, but he was surprisingly open about it. He even cracked a joke or two about it. Wilson blinked, impressed with House's level of restraint. He really, really, really wanted the money. Or, more likely, the time out of the clinic. House had finally turned away from the group when his phone rang and rolled away to a table to answer it. Wilson had taken the chance to slip away too, and he'd hurried through the line with trays for himself and House. He'd set the food down on the table, and was secretly pleased that House immediately began toying with the food. He'd risen to get drinks and extra napkins while House's conversation grew more heated. Definitely an argument. Wilson shook his head as he sank down into his seat and began eating his own meal. Quietly, almost reluctantly, the other conference attendees began drifting closer; drawn to House like a moth to flame. Their quiet voices were almost inaudible from the tables around them. House picked at his meal, and Wilson had begun to despair of him eating much of anything for the duration of their trip. The argument had definitely gotten more heated, Wilson could tell from House's tone that he really, really wanted to strangle Foreman. At one point, House slammed his fist down on the table and started shouting at Foreman.

"Yeah, I'm pissed because I'm short on sleep. My leg hurts, and I'm 1500 miles from home. This kid has several unidentified bleeds from sources we can't pinpoint, and I want you to take her down for an MRI and find the damned Wegner's before it punches a hole in something we can't fix." House fell silent for a moment; and so did the hall. Wilson knew the slightest noise would startle everyone. House, however, took no notice of everyone's attention.

"Does a CT sound like an MRI? Because if it does I definitely shouldn't have picked the candidate with the juvenile record." House barked. "Take her down for the MRI. Find it." He hung up then; throwing his phone down on the table and rubbing his eyes wearily. Slowly, people began to speak again. Wilson nudged House discreetly, and he looked up.

"Your leg still bothering you?" he asked in a low voice. After a moment, House nodded. Wilson sighed; he'd had a feeling that this would happen. House's pain levels were adversely affected by his stress, the weather and his mercurial moods.

The long days with a patient before the trip, the flight, late arrival and arguing with Foreman over a case—House was massaging the leg with one hand. He was telling the truth. He was in agony. Shaking his head slightly, House pushed himself away from the table and reached around for his laptop. Wilson assisted, pulling it out of the case and handing it to him. Giving him a cursory nod, House booted it up and plugged in his remote link. He logged into the hospital's database and entered his patient's chart. Labs, procedures and various notes spilled onto the screen. House backed out of the chart and dove into the film archives, where he let it sit while he finished picking over his sandwich. His cell rang again, and Wilson hid a smile at the way the whole room fell utterly silent when House answered. His over-the-top methods and his reputation were well-deserved, but few had ever been privileged enough to witness it for themselves. It was always amazing to see House lock in on the diagnosis, and watch everything else fall by the wayside. Shaking himself, Wilson tuned back into the conversation.

"..no, see, it fits. You wouldn't necessarily see that with Wegner's if it presented without the accompanying—"

House gritted his teeth, and rubbed at his forehead in irritation. In a room of over one hundred medical professionals, no one spoke, no one breathed while House made his team. Wilson shook his head, smiling; this scene would fuel the rumors in the medical community for years to come. It was quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

And it was absolutely fascinating to watch House thread an elephant through the eye of the needle.


	6. Unity

Sometimes, she mused, it sucked to date a doctor. Greg was an attending physician in a well staffed department at a fully accredited hospital. Most of the time, his schedule was strictly nine to five, or ten until three—whichever he chose—with the occasional nighttime call if a patient coded, or if he consulted in other areas. But when his department head had decided to take a sabbatical to finish writing his book, he had left Greg in charge for the twelve week duration of his leave. So now Greg not only worked his own cases and consulted for other departments; he also oversaw the rest of the department. In the past three weeks, he'd been able to sleep through the night twice. They'd eaten together only four times, and two had been in the cafeteria at the hospital. She'd found herself hoping that Greg's increasingly short temper would give way and he'd insult or assault someone, which would require her to spend time with him to sort out the legalities.

So far, no luck. She figured it was only a matter of time. Climbing the last of the steps to their apartment, she dug out her keys and unlocked the door; biting her tongue as the lock caught and forced her to put her shoulder into the door to bump it open. A hot bath, a TV dinner and a quick check of her messages before going to bed were the only plans she could envision for the evening. Smiling wryly, she stepped inside to find the late hour had plunged the apartment into near-darkness—except for the flickering glow from the TV. Greg was asleep on the couch, slumped into the cushions with his head lolled back. He hadn't even bothered to change; he was still in his shoes and his tie. He'd probably passed out as soon as he'd sat down, because those were the two items inevitably first removed as soon as he hit the doorway. Smiling fondly, she set her purse down and toed her own shoes off before leaning over, watching him sleep for a moment. She rounded the end of the couch and turned one of the lamps on low before beginning her search for the remote. She found it pressed into the cushions beside him and turned the set off before setting the remote down silently. She ran her fingertips through his hair gently; smiled when he stirred but didn't wake, exhaling sleepily. Reaching around his waist gently, she tugged his shirt up and sought the pager she knew was still clipped to his belt. Gently wiggling the pager loose, she set it down on the table as quietly as she could manage. She stared down at him as she snagged the afghan off the back of the couch and spread it over him tenderly. Resigned to a night now spent tiptoeing around the apartment and furtively watching him sleep; she moved toward the bedroom on stockinged feet only to be startled when the phone rang. Biting her lip, she hurried to the far side of the couch and snatched the phone from its base before it could ring again and wake Greg up.

"Hello?" she answered breathlessly.

"Hi, darling." Her mother's voice purred delicately. Stacy winced, and cupped her hand around the mouthpiece as though her mother's voice would somehow jar Greg from sleep. She moved stealthily down the hall and into the guest room where she shut the door behind her.

"Mom. How are you?"

"I'm wonderful. Listen, Paul and I are here in Princeton—he had meetings all afternoon—and I thought it would be lovely to see you and Greg while we were here. We could go out for dinner."

"Oh." Stacy sucked in a breath as she tried to find a way out of it. "I wish we could, Mom. Greg's on call this week-and he's just exhausted. He's been asleep all afternoon."

"That's all right darling. We'll come over to your place. See you in an hour or so." And with that, she hung up. Stacy blew her breath out when she heard the dial tone, trying to decide in her mind when she had lost the upper hand in the conversation. She stood in the silence of the guest room for a few minutes while she contemplated the likelihood of moving out of the state and fleeing the country within the next hour. She finally hit the 'talk' button and switched the phone off before opening the door and returning to the living room. Setting the phone in its cradle, she sighed again. First things first. Getting Greg up off the couch and moving. Then she'd have to see if she could even come up with something for dinner.

"Greg?" she called quietly. He didn't stir, his breath coming slowly and deeply. Sighing again, she sat down beside him and stroked his cheek gently.

"Greg? Come on, honey. I need you to wake up."

He stirred then, eyelashes fluttering. "Whatsamatter?" he asked tiredly.

"My mother is coming for dinner." She told him quietly. "She'll be here in an hour."

Greg blinked at her fuzzily. "You invited her for dinner?"

"No. She invited herself. After she invited us out. I tried to tell her you were on call—and that's when she decided they could come over here." Greg looked confused; he seemed to be trying to piece the events together. Stacy took pity on him, and tugged on his wrist.

"I don't understand it either, and I was awake for it. Come on, up. Go shower. I'm going to see what I can find for dinner."

Greg still looked exhausted, but he swung his legs over and sat up scrubbing his face. Rising stiffly, he staggered down the hall and a moment later she heard the shower start. Standing herself, she moved into the kitchen and surveyed the pantry in desolation. Spaghetti, she decided. Pulling out the pots and pans to start the water boiling, she got to work making meatballs. She was rummaging through the pantry in hopes of finding a jar of spaghetti sauce when she heard the shower turn off, and then the bathroom door open. She poked her head out of the kitchen in time to see Greg stumble tiredly out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. She watched him kick the bedroom door closed, and had no sooner turned back to her pursuit of sauce when the doorbell rang. Summoning her courage, she smoothed her hair back and hurried to the door.

"Hi, Mom. Paul." She greeted warmly. She hugged her mother and stepfather as they stepped into the apartment. She took their jackets and hung them up, shooing them into the living room.

"Do you need any help, honey?" Stacy nodded as she moved back into the kitchen. She abandoned her search of the second shelf and moved onto the third. Ha! Tucked far in the back was a single jar of Prego. Plain, but she could doctor it up while she made the salad.

"Sure, Mom, if you wouldn't mind keeping an eye on the pasta."

"Where's Greg?" John asked as he settled down on the couch and turned the TV on.

"He just got out of the shower. He's probably getting dressed." Stacy called back. She tipped the Prego into the pan with the meatballs and stirred it until the sauce coated everything before turning her attention to the mushrooms and zucchini. She threw a salad together quickly, and added the extra veggies to the sauce. Satisfied, she set plates and silverware out on the table.

"Is Greg out there yet?" she asked Paul, putting her head out the door.

"Not yet." John went back to his game, and Stacy wiped her hands on a towel before venturing down to the bedroom. She knocked once, and then opened the door. "Greg?" she called.

He didn't answer, and Stacy wasn't entirely surprised to find Greg half-dressed and sound asleep on the bed. He'd pulled on boxers and a shirt, and had presumably sat down to pull his jeans on when he fell asleep. They were still clutched in his hands. She sighed, and closed the door. Sitting beside him, she could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. He was out, and there was little sense in waking him. He clearly needed the rest. Snatching the afghan from the end of the bed, she spread it over him warmly. She turned on the lamp on the bedside table, and made a trip into the living room to grab his cell. The way Greg's luck was going; his patient would crash at some point in the evening. She leaned down and kissed his forehead gently before leaving him to sleep.

Dinner was quiet and tense. Her mother and Paul had both taken a perverse delight in needling her about Greg's absence, but she'd refused to relent. She'd never seen him so exhausted. The idea that he could be called back to the hospital on a moment's notice was frustrating as well. They'd no sooner finished eating when Stacy heard the bedroom door open, and Greg emerged looking rumpled and tired. His hair was standing on end and there were pillow creases pressed into his cheek. Fortunately, he'd been awake enough to pull his jeans on. With a sinking heart, she noted he was on his cell phone.

"Where's his hemoglobin?" he was asking. He paused, and then spoke again as his fingers reached for the pager lying on the table. "I know that, and it's not the Crohn's. If it was, his hemoglobin would be in the tank. It's not—"

"Greg?" her mother called; and Stacy winced. Greg ignored her though, as he struggled to run his belt through the loops on his jeans and slip his pager into the holder.

"…call Goldstein, and tell him the surgery's on. What? No, I want you to sit there and watch the guy die because we have no idea what's wrong with him. Tests take time. This guy doesn't have any." Greg hung up on the caller then, and stormed into the kitchen. Stacy got to her feet quickly, and joined him as fast as she could. He was opening and closing cabinets, obviously looking for something.

"Greg, honey, what are you looking for?"

"I need something to eat." He told her in a clipped tone. She felt her own temper flare, but reminded herself that he wasn't really upset with her. It wouldn't help the situation if she started yelling back at him. Especially not with her mother in the room. His phone rang again, and Greg drew it out of his pocket as Stacy grabbed a container. Probably be best to give it to him in something he could transport it in. It didn't look like he'd be eating in the next little while.

"House." He growled. Stacy packed the spaghetti, and added a piece of garlic bread for him. "Tell Goldstein we need the OR. No, I don't care. I-" he sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "Look, can you get the room? Fine. I'll run the exploratory. All I want to do is poke around in his abdomen." He paused, and leaned back on the counter. "I am qualified to handle a laparoscopy. Fine, then run it by Christianson." He hung up abruptly, and gave Stacy a sad smile.

"I'll eat it here, I guess."

Stacy nodded, and scraped the spaghetti out onto a plate and slid it over to him. "Should still be warm." She said, eyeing him sadly as he sank down on one of the stools by the counter and scrubbed his face tiredly.

"Greg, how are you?"

Greg looked up sharply, and Stacy caught his eye; giving him a warning glare. He nodded, lowering his eyes gently before softening his features into something less irritated. "Fine," he murmured. "just tired." Sopping up the spaghetti sauce with the bread, he chewed for a moment before swiveling on the stool to study Anna and Paul wearily. "How long are you in Princeton?"

"Just for the night." Anna answered. Paul, long accustomed to his wife speaking for him, said nothing. "Paul was in town for business, and I'd hoped we could catch up with you and Stacy."

"Ahh. Sorry I won't be here." He said curtly. Stacy winced, her mind racing with her mother's possible responses.

"You work too much, Greg." Anna said, shaking her head sadly. "You and Stacy need to spend more time together."

Greg opened his mouth, only to shut it abruptly. He tilted his head and stared down into his plate sadly before taking his fork up and twirling the spaghetti around it.

"Mom-" Stacy began, only to fall silent when her mother turned to stare her down.

"I'm not getting any younger, and neither are the two of you." She said firmly. "I want grandchildren."

"Mom!" Stacy barked in disapproval, watching out of the corner of her as Greg set his fork down and bowed his head deeply in exhaustion. "This is not a good time. We'll talk about it later."

"You always say that." Anna snapped, "And we never hear any more about it. Are you getting married or aren't you?" she demanded, and Greg leaned back, scratching his chin before shoving his chair out of the way and rising to his feet abruptly.

"We haven't decided." Stacy watched Greg as he dumped his spaghetti into the Tupperware and tossed it back in the fridge. Anger was radiating off of him, and while some of it was probably a cumulative loss of sleep, some of it was genuine anger at her mother's ill-timed meddling.

"What is there to decide? You've been dating for three years!" Anna exploded, and Greg slammed the fridge door hard enough to make the jars inside tinkle back and forth. He turned to the sink and gripped the countertop in tired anger, staring out into the night. Stacy shook her head sadly, and shook her head. "Maybe we're not ready yet, Mom." She said quietly. "I have a busy career, and Greg does too—and we just don't feel like we need that piece of paper. A wedding would be a lot of trouble for the two of us to manage right now."

"All I want is for Greg to make an honest woman out of you." Anna sighed, and crossed her arms defiantly.

"Of course." Greg muttered, turning around from the sink at last. "It's all about what you want."

"That's hardly fair, Greg-" Anna stuttered, but Greg continued as though she hadn't even spoken.

"Maybe we don't want to get married. Would that be a problem?" he asked coldly. "Maybe we don't want kids. Maybe we're happy living like we are."

Anna reddened, and Stacy inwardly groaned. Whatever response Greg had been hoping for—he wasn't likely to get it. Her mother was spoiling for a fight. She sputtered for a moment in rage, only to be interrupted by Greg's pager. He snatched it out of the holder and held it up before cursing wildly and hitting speed dial on his phone. Before the other party could even utter a word, he started in on them.

"This is what happens when you stand around with your thumb up your ass when the patient's hemorraging. Are you-" he paused, glancing around the kitchen frantically before heading back toward the bedroom at a fast clip. He emerged with his keys and slipped his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans as he spoke. "…I know, and it won't make a bit of difference. It's not his Crohns. Yes, I—no. It's not an ulcer. Well, it didn't come up in the colonoscopy or the EGD, and the biopsies were clean for anything else. If it was there GI would have seen it. No, I don't care." He snapped. "All right, I'm leaving now. He'd better be in the OR and prepped when I get there. Transfuse him and take him down."

Greg hung up his phone and shrugged into a Princeton sweatshirt before stuffing his feet into his shoes and bolting for the door. His laces weren't even tied. Standing in the silence of the kitchen, Stacy pinched the bridge of her nose, and gave her mother a tight smile.

It was half-past three when Greg slipped into bed beside her. She was startled out of a sound sleep when the mattress dipped beside her and Greg slid into bed with a deep sigh. Torn between white-hot anger at the way he'd left her with her mother; and the sympathy she felt for him, she scooted closer to him and wrapped an arm about his belly in comfort. He didn't speak, just tugged her into the crook of his shoulder and rubbed her back gently.

"I'm sorry." He murmured quietly into the darkness.

"You should be." She rejoined, feeling him sigh heavily against her. "Next time I'm leaving and you can stay and explain your behavior."

"No way." He yawned, and she shifted to pillow her head on his chest. He was silent for a time and Stacy wondered if he'd fallen asleep when she felt him hitch in a breath and let it out slowly.

"Do you want to get married?" he asked softly, and she drew in a breath sharply. In all the time they'd been together, she'd never considered it. Greg's arm was around her shoulder, she was snug and warm in his embrace. His fingers danced lightly across her back; his strong, sure hands that could cajole a thousand emotions from a piano or move with confidence through someone's innards—held her possessively. He was warm, funny, surprising—and he could be cynical, rude and judgemental. They fought constantly, squabbling over dishes and laundry, tv shows and groceries. They spent weekends curled onto the couch to watch movies or went camping or just worked at home. She'd been in few serious relationships in her life, but never one so—comfortable. Did marriage make them more stable, more secure? Did it make their relationship more…official, somehow? Did it make them more connected to each other? She shook her head slightly, squeezing her eyes closed as she envisioned her own parents, the parents of friends who had grown distant and apart despite their vows. If marriage wasn't enough to keep people together in the end; if it didn't strengthen a relationship—what purpose did it serve? Could she marry Greg, knowing all the while that what they had between them was culminated in a piece of paper and the weight of two rings? Would they be enough to make him stay?

"No." she whispered, and felt Greg shift beneath her; felt his hand still on her back. "Do you?" she asked.

"No." he whispered back. His hand resumed its gentle strokes across her back. "I like things the way they are."

Stacy nodded against him, and after a time she felt him sigh beneath her. Neither spoke, and Stacy sensed that they would never speak of it again. After a time, lulled by the warmth and the darkness and his exhaustion, Greg fell asleep. Stacy lay awake, basking in his warmth and the comfort of his loosened embrace. She felt the regular rise and fall of his chest, and the way his breath rumbled beneath her. Curling into him, she listened to the reassuring beat of his heart. It was foolish, she knew, to cling to the hope that what they had would never change.

She just wished it wouldn't.


	7. Nothing

"We're not friends, House. We never were."

Wilson—Wilson wouldn't—he never had-

But he did. He was. Leaving. If it was a truth that everybody lied; and everybody died, then it was an absolute rule that everyone left. Frozen before Wilson's desk as he had stood so many times before, he memorized the way Wilson's footsteps sounded as they faded down the hall. People moved on, grew, changed. Everyone but himself. At first it had been his parents, childhood friends, then girlfriends, buddies, fellow students and co-workers. He'd be welcomed with open arms, embraced for his unconventional thinking. Then came the slow realization of who he was dawned, and they removed themselves. Unwilling or unable to be around him. He'd struggled as a child to work out what it was in him that they so despised. He was nothing more than a mirror in which they could only see themselves. Ugly and blemished. Addictions, failed marriages, affairs were the only visible flirtations of the darkness within.

He'd withdrawn, learning at a young age that it was best not to show yourself. Strike first, strike fast. Leave while they're reeling. Until Stacy had come along. She'd drawn more blood than anyone before. He'd left more of himself exposed, relaxed, trusted. His feelings for Stacy had caused him more pain than the misfiring nerves. He'd struggled to cauterize the wound she'd left in his heart as effectively as his leg had been. But like his leg, her departure had further decimated him.

Wilson hid more than most. Beneath his mild, pleasant exterior lurked a selfish darkness that he knew he could not rival. Nor did he want to. With Wilson he was comfortable. Wilson knew who and what he was, and he had never run. Until now. His weaknesses had played into Wilson's own. Until Amber had shown him how to look out for himself.

"We're not friends, House. We never were."

He couldn't just leave.

"We're not friends, House. We never were."

What did that mean? All the ball games and bowling and bar hopping—Christmas and Thanksgiving and night after night of black and white movies and bad Chinese and consults and cases and conferences and nights on the town and marathons and swimming and basketball all for—

"We're not friends, House. We never were."

Nothing.


	8. Weathered

The hospital was much as it had always been. A little older, more weathered, much like himself. The trees were taller. The clear glass windows had aged in some places, absorbing his reflection instead of casting it back. He shivered at the frosted oak leaves etched into the glass as he moved to take the handle of the door. The lobby was the same as it had always been, filled with patients and doctors and students moving in their own distinct rhythm. He stood silently for a long moment; remembering.

"Sir? Can I help you?"

He smiled, meeting the earnest gaze of a young nurse at the check-in desk.

"No." he told her calmly. "I know my way." Despite how long it had been, he remembered every floor, every hall, every room intimately. He strode toward the elevator confidently. Pressing the button, he waited patiently, smiling as he imagined a rubber-tipped cane jabbing the up-button impatiently. If he closed his eyes, he could hear a step-thump that was familiar and dear. The elevator dinged and the doors opened. He stepped back to let the passengers out before crossing the threshold, pivoting about to press the button for the fourth floor. He grinned inexplicably at the faint grinding of gears, and the way the elevator rattled as it passed every floor. The doors opened on the fourth floor and he laughed aloud at the scuff marks worn into the floor just beyond the lip of the elevator. One woman eyed him oddly, and he tried to wipe the smile away.

House was dying.

Cuddy had contacted him three days ago; it had taken him until that morning to rearrange his schedule. He'd shifted his patients to his fellows and scrambled to find a flight. Despite the reason for his unexpected trip to Princeton, he found he was glad he had come. He'd half-expected to be depressed at the reminders of his former life; his fellowship with House, but found only comfort in the familiar surroundings. He paused in the hall; he'd automatically gone straight toward the Diagnostics lounge instead of the floor. Hesitantly, he grasped the handle and stepped into the darkened room. It was the same as it had always been; table arranged the length of the room, shelves and books along the bay of windows. House's red mug perched on the counter by the sink. He felt his throat tighten, but forced himself to continue through the connecting door to House's old office. It, too, was unchanged by time. Everything arranged the same, even the reclining chair and the paper lamp and the big red and gray ball. He smiled then; he'd heard once that Foreman had initially left House's fellowship because he didn't want to be like him. It seemed that despite his words, Foreman had a soft spot for misanthropic, curmudgeonly, crippled old doctors.

"Can I help you?" a woman asked, and he turned to find an attractive brunette in a lab coat. One of the new fellows, he surmised.

"I'm Larry Kutner. I—I was a fellow of House's once, long ago."

"You're Dr. Kutner?" she smiled at him, looking bemused. She held a hand out. "It's an honor to meet you. I'm Steph Harrington."

"You must be one of House's new fellows."

"Yes." She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear; looking so similar to Remy Hadley that he bit his lip. "We've mostly been working with Dr. Foreman. Dr. House has mostly worked as a consultant from home these past two years. And especially after he was diagnosed with liver cancer—"

"I know." Kutner said quietly. The elation over being in Princeton once more was wearing off, he supposed. He shook himself, forced a smile. "Do you know what room he's in?"

"406." Harrington nodded, and started for the door. He followed wordlessly. "Dr. Foreman's shut down the department for now. He said he doesn't think we can be objective."

"You disagree?" Kutner asked absently.

"I don't really know Dr. House." She admitted.

"But Foreman does. I don't think I could be objective about anything right now myself." He confessed.

Harrington led him down the hall to the left. She paused at the nurses' desk, but waved him on. He walked silently, counting off the descending order of room numbers until he found room 406. Steeling himself, he slid the door open and pushed the blinds aside. The room was dark, save for the glow from the TV and House's blue eyes gleaming at him in the dim light.

"House." He greeted quietly. "How are you doing?"

House's eyes widened in recognition, and he tried to speak. His breath rattled in his chest and Kutner winced at the sound. "What're…you…doing…here?" he rasped.

"Came to see you."

"Cuz…I'm dying." He supplied.

"Yeah." Kutner sighed, and House smiled—actually smiled—at the exasperation he put into the sound. "How are you?" he asked again, and House raised a shaking hand to the bed controls. As he turned on the overhead light, and raised the head of the bed, Kutner pulled off his coat and flung it over the back of the chair by the bed. He sank down, happy to be off his feet, and to find House doing far better than he'd expected.

"Peachy." Kutner rolled his eyes, but was secretly delighted House still had his wit. His hair had thinned and whitened years ago, but chemo had stripped him of the little that remained. His skin was like parchment; jaundiced and spread thinly over his wasted frame. Only his eyes were unchanged, still glowing steadily. Shifting his attention to the monitors, Kutner idly noted House's blood pressure, heart rate and oxygen sats. Even with the cannula under his nose, his saturation was only 96 percent. Another point lost, and they'd have to switch him to the mask. Glancing back at House, he could see both amusement and annoyance vying in his features.

"Like…what…you see?"

"You're not my type." Kutner smiled when House laughed, though it was little more than puff of air. Not surprisingly, his sats fell off briefly and set off an alarm, which brought one of the nurses in at a run.

"Dr. House? Are you all right?" she checked the monitors, looking relieved when House nodded.

"I…forgot…how…funny he was." He breathed out. His heartrate stabilized again, as did his sats.

"No more hilarity." The nurse ordered sternly, though she was smiling.

"Not…much…to...live for…"

"I'll be in to give you a sponge bath in half an hour or so."

"I think…I'll…stick…around then." House leered, and Kutner laughed this time. The nurse, Andrea, smiled as she noted his saturation in his chart and shut the screen off.

"There's a visual I don't need." Kutner pretended to shudder, and Andrea beamed at him. House gave him a mock glare as he brought a hand up to rub his eyes tiredly. As Andrea slid out of the room, Kutner rose to his feet and gathered his coat. House blinked in surprise when Kutner patted his arm gently.

"I'll let you sleep before your bath. I need something to eat, anyway." House nodded, eyes already closing. Kutner reached over gently and turned the overhead fluorescent light off. He put a hand on House's shoulder; felt the thin, jutting edge of his collarbone beneath the spread of his hand. He squeezed it gently, and left House to rest.

The cafeteria was where he remembered it; though the décor had changed. He stepped into line and took up a tray; smiled pleasantly at the dour woman who asked if he wanted the special.

"Kutner!" he half turned to find Robert and Allison Chase bearing down on him, looking happy to see him.

"Chase. Cameron." He greeted formally, though he grinned at both. They took their own trays and filled them before following him to a table in the corner.

"How is life in San Diego?" Cameron asked as she dug into her salad. Kutner drenched his salad in dressing before lifting the first forkful to his mouth.

"Wonderful. Beautiful weather year round—except when the Santa Anas blow." He studied her intently, finding the tiny wrinkles and lines that aged Allison Cameron from the beautiful young doctor she'd been when they'd met. He shook his head. She was still beautiful, even though she wasn't blond any more. "How is life here in Princeton?"

"Same as always." Chase shook his head, and pushed his salad out of the way in favor of his cup of soup. "Are you in Diagnostics out in California?"

"Yeah. Kinda. I teach Diagnostics at UCSD. Once in a while I get back to dealing with patients." Kutner grinned. "You still in surgery?"

"Yep. Tenured now."

"What about you, Cameron?"

"I'm the attending in immunology."

"Any little Chases?" he asked, smiling.

Chase laughed aloud. "Yes, we have two boys. They're thirteen."

"Twins?"

"No, two different kids who happened to be born at the same time."

Kutner snorted, and shook his head. One thing all of House's former fellows shared after their time with him was a steadily sharpened wit. Snarky, sarcastic comebacks were often the first skill learned in life with House. Chase was smiling, which took the sting out of his comment. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through a series of shots of their two teenage boys; identical twins with Chase's eyes and Cameron's fine features.

"Cute kids. Bet they run you ragged."

"Thanks. And they definitely do." Cameron smiled, too, but the smile didn't reach her eyes this time. "Did Cuddy fill you in on his condition?"

"No. She didn't say much. She only said she didn't think it would be long." Kutner felt sadness envelop him. His chest tightened in sympathy as he remembered the way House's breathing had been labored by the fluid in his lungs.

"He did so well in his first months of chemo. I honestly thought he had a chance." Cameron toyed with her fork absently.

"How advanced was the tumor?"

"It was about stage 2-3 when he figured it out. Slight jaundice, elevated LFTs in his labwork. They elected to take what they could get surgically, but it had metastasized to his kidneys. Six rounds of chemo, three attempts with radiation. He asked to stop." Cameron paused then, tears welling in her eyes. Kutner reached over gently and squeezed her hand. "He said he didn't want any more." She whispered softly.

Kutner remained silent as Chase wrapped an arm around Cameron and hugged her close. There wasn't anything to say.

"Is Wilson still around?" Kutner asked quietly. "I mean, has he seen him?"

"He hasn't practiced in years. He left Princeton after Amber—"

"I remember. I meant; has he come to see him?"

"He's been here every now and then. He teaches up in Montreal. He went home after House's last round of radiation three weeks ago." Cameron dried her eyes with her napkin and tried to smile again. "He's—he's very upset."

"What about Dr Cuddy?" Kutner finished his salad and set his plate aside. He dunked the spoon into the cup of soup and struggled with the cellophane on the crackers before dumping them in as well.

"She's still the Dean. Rumor had it she and House were together for a while and then not again." She shrugged. "She's taking it pretty hard." Cameron sniffled again, and gave Kutner a teary smile.

"We all are."

The sound of heels on tile caught his attention, and Kutner smiled to see Lisa Cuddy slowly making her way toward them in her low heels and elegant business suit. She still looked every inch a confident, competent physician. He hadn't seen her since he'd left House's fellowship in 2011, but they'd kept in contact every now and then. She looked older and far more frail; as though she'd lost something vital. He winced, biting his lip. Cameron was right; they were all losing something vital. Cuddy drew a chair close to their table, and sank down gratefully. She was silent for a moment, before putting a hand on Kutner's shoulder gently.

"I'm glad you came." She said simply. Kutner nodded. Cuddy glanced around the cafeteria to find it was empty, except for the food service employees. "As I told Kutner, it won't be long now. House has asked to be taken off dialysis and all other supportive measures are to be dropped."

Cameron sniffled again, but when Kutner looked, her eyes red rimmed but dry.

"Why did you call me?" Kutner blurted without thinking. Chase raised an eyebrow that conveyed his curiosity as well.

"House…doesn't have many people that he's close to. But while you all worked with him, he thought of you as his family. He still does. He fought you. He fought for you. He believed that for you to become the best in your field you needed someone who let you make mistakes and pushed you past them. I-," She paused; there were tears in her eyes and her voice became more unsteady when she continued. "I know he doesn't know how to tell you that. He just-he shouldn't be alone when-" her voice broke then, and the tears slipped silently down her cheek.

Chase leaned over and put a hand gently on Cuddy's, squeezed it firmly. "He won't be. And neither will you."

They had finished their meals in silence, and had risen together to go back upstairs. Chase, Cameron, Cuddy and himself; were they the only ones to see House these days?

"Where's Foreman?" he asked suddenly, remembering that Harrington had mentioned he'd shut down the department. If he wasn't working cases, where was he?

Chase shrugged. "He said he had something he needed to do. He took off for a couple days." Kutner felt sick. Wilson, his oldest friend wouldn't come to say goodbye. And Foreman wasn't there at all. He thought briefly of his wife; she'd been very understanding when he'd told her he needed to be with House. He couldn't imagine being all alone, at the end. The elevator deposited them all on the fourth floor. Kutner peered down the hallway as Cuddy led them to the nurses' station and began conferring quietly with Andrea. Diagnostics was painted a dying red in the fading daylight. Kutner snorted, and bit his lip. In every clichéd movie he'd ever seen, the death always happened at sundown. As though people couldn't die in the wee hours of the night, or in the morning, or just after lunch. House had never done what was expected of him. He half-way hoped the man would defy the odds and last the night; but, he also hoped his time of suffering would come to an end. For his own sake, if not theirs.

Cuddy's quiet conference with Andrea revealed she'd done as ordered; House had been taken off dialysis. IVs had been removed. His oxygen saturation had dropped another point; he'd been put onto a mask and was sleeping again. Kutner smiled sadly when he realized the sponge bath had been nothing more than Andrea's playful banter with her patient. He briefly considered asking her if she would do it anyway, but realized that for House, it would be little more than torture. Cuddy led them to House's room and knocked, quietly, before sliding the door open. To his credit, House opened his eyes when they entered. He looked dismayed to find all of them together, and his respiration increased steadily. Stepping up beside the bed, Cuddy put a hand on his arm and spoke quietly to him. He nodded after a moment, and his breathing calmed. Forcing himself to speak up, Kutner strode forward to the TV. "Anything good on?"

House shook his head, and Kutner chuckled as he turned it on, and began scrolling idly through the channels. He landed on a channel with monster trucks and grinned. "I beg to differ."

Chase and Cameron had disappeared, but came back shortly with chairs for themselves and for him and Cuddy. House scowled at them, and pushed the mask away to pant;

"Don't…you have…someplace…else…to be?"

"Nope." Chase told him quietly.

"Death…watch?"

"Always wondered when you'd kick off." Cameron told him, but her smile belied her words. "You wouldn't want us to miss it." House gave them a small smile before he slid the mask over his mouth and nose again, assured that his curmudgeonly reputation was intact until the end.


	9. Admission

House's brilliant blue eyes were dulled with exhaustion and pain; he blinked unsteadily at Wilson from where he lay on the floor. His breathing was irregular, and he was trembling all over. Wilson was silent, unmoving for a moment until he pushed himself to his feet and stepped over House and down to the door. He was running by the time he hit the ground, cell phone pressed to his ear. Cuddy gently brushed House's hair back before lowering his head back to the floor as she made to rise. House blinked up at her, his lips parted to say something when his expression changed, and he retched, painfully. Cuddy shifted him onto his side with Cameron and Chase's help and held him until he stopped, gasping. Cuddy carefully lifted his head back into her lap. There was blood trickling from his ear again.

"You two." She lifted her chin at two nurses and ordered tersely; "Get a stretcher."

"No." House muttered.

"I'm admitting you." Cuddy told him in her no-nonsense voice. "Your heart stopped, you have a skull fracture. You need to be monitored."

"I need to go with Wilson." He whispered breathily.

"No." Cuddy waved impatiently at the two nurses, who clambered off the bus. House shifted against Cameron, and struggled to lift his head from Cuddy's lap.

"House—"Cameron began, shifting to hold him still.

"I need to go with Wilson." He said haltingly. His breathing was harsh and fast, and Cuddy feared he was going to pass out from the exertion or lack of oxygen.

"No." she repeated firmly.

"I'll go." Chase offered, getting to his feet. "I'll go with Wilson, and I'll let you know what happens." He promised. House stared up at him fuzzily before nodding once, slowly. Chase bolted off the bus, and Cuddy felt House relax against her again. His eyes slid closed involuntarily, and she patted his cheek gently.

"Stay with me, House."

"Tired." He mumbled. Cameron took his hand, and inspected his fingernails cautiously. She nodded, held up his hand to reveal the purple tinge to his nails.

"I know." Cuddy told him. "I want to get a CT, check the swelling. Then we'll let you sleep. Okay?" He mumbled something that might have been an answer, but Cuddy was focused on the stretcher and the EMTs at the door. They clambered up into the bus and managed to pick House up and transfer him in one smooth movement. Cuddy had supported House's head until he lay on the stretcher, and they were strapping him down for the ride into the ER.

"Cameron—go with House. Get him upstairs for a CT. Get him on oxygen, and something to counteract the physostigmine." Cuddy directed. "Foreman, get me a bed in the ICU."

The EMTs lifted House's gurney back onto the sidewalk and began rolling him to the ambulance with Cameron and Foreman in their wake. Kutner, Taub and Thirteen emerged from the bus, as did the remaining role playing victims. Cuddy waved them off the bus and back to the hospital and they moved past her silently, removing their pictures and signs. Rubbing her eyes, Cuddy turned away from the empty bus and stared intently at the sidewalk, willing herself not to cry. Swallowing a hiccupy sob, she wrapped her arms about herself tightly for a moment; waiting until the burning in her throat eased, until the stinging tears in her eyes no longer blurred her vision. Sighing shakily, she slowly headed for her car, wishing she could do something more for Wilson. The only thing she could do for him, really, was look after House.

House's sats were in the basement; he'd predictably passed out shortly after being transferred again in the ER. His clothes had been cut off; he'd been redressed in a gown and hooked up to a heart monitor and given a mask instead of the oxygen cannula. His breath fogged the mask. Heart rate was under 50, his bradycardia was improving but not resolved. Cuddy bit her lip, and clenched her fist in anger. He was a damned fool—his refusal to rest even after the skull fracture had been diagnosed, when the swelling in his brain had made him vomit and pass out. When the physostigmine stimulated the neurotransmitters in his brain and overloaded his heart and caused him to arrest; he'd still fought his way to consciousness. He'd done it, she knew, for Wilson. Not for himself. He'd done it to save a life.

Amber's life.

"CT?" she asked in a clipped tone as Cameron returned with a bag of fluids and started setting House up for an IV.

"Foreman's clearing the machine." Cameron told her quietly. "His pressure's low."

Cuddy sighed, nodding. "Oxygen sats?"

"High 80's. I've ordered a nebulizer treatment." Cameron finished sticking House in the hand and taped the tubing down before turning up the fluids. One of the ER nurses returned with House's chart, which she offered to Cuddy and a new ID bracelet, which she snaked around House's left wrist and clipped into place. Glancing up, Cuddy could see House's name and date of birth, his date of admission, and her own name listed as House's admitting physician.

"You listed me?" Cuddy asked Cameron, who was studying House's latest blood work to determine the amount of physostigmine he'd ingested.

"As what?" she asked absently.

"His admitting."

"Wilson can't do it. Who else would want him?" Cameron asked incredulously as she spun out of the room to obtain atropine. Cuddy winced at that, and took House's limp hand, gave it a squeeze as she straightened the band on his wrist.


	10. Aftermath

It felt good to be awake. For the first time in three days he was fully awake, not semi-conscious or lost in his dreams.

Awake. Aware.

He ached all over. His leg was an ever present pain; he did not rank it equally with the pounding headache or the burning in his chest. Wilson had pounded his chest with his fist before resuming compressions. His whole left side ached with abandon, as did his head, neck and back. Glancing down, he could see the deepening bruises partially hidden by the gown. He shifted in the bed, felt the tug of his IV, and the restraint of the Foley as he slid onto his left side cautiously. After sitting upright for so long, even the slightest change in position eased the ache a little. He listened to the acceleration of the cardiac monitor before his heart rate slowed once more, stabilizing at 74. He stared at the bed railing, at the empty recliner beside his bed before reaching out and punching the button for the TV. It clicked on soundlessly, and he jabbed the button on the rail until Dr Phil's tinny voice came through the speakers.

"…you've got to help yourself. There isn't anyone to do it for you—"

"…hazardous levels of radon. How often should you have your house checked? Tonight, at ten."

"Dr. House?" he lifted his head slightly to find the door to the ICU had opened and one of the nurses was standing just inside. He waited expectantly as she crossed to his side for a vitals check.

"How're you feeling?" she asked gently as she took his wrist to measure out his pulse, then checked the monitors.

"Better." He whispered hoarsely.

"Any pain?" she asked brusquely.

"Some. Head, chest." He was still half-sitting, half lying on his side.

"Can you sit back for me?" she asked. He shook his head. She patted his hand sympathetically, and he closed his eyes. "That's all right. You're about due for pain meds. Dr. Cuddy will be in to see you shortly."

He nodded, and let himself go limp against the pillow as she finished noting his vitals in the chart and left to retrieve his meds. He tried to pay attention to the TV; Jeopardy was on, and he liked trying to guess the answers. The nurse returned, and pushed the diazepam through his IV port. He stayed awake until the commercial break, but by the time the show returned; he was out for the count.

He woke next to find the TV was off, and the curtains on the side of his bed had been drawn. He lay there for a moment, breathing; he felt dulled, heavy. It took him several moments to work out he wasn't alone in the room; he could make out another person breathing slowly, deeply. Asleep, he realized. He lifted his head slightly, closing his eyes as the room spun sickeningly. He breathed through it, opening his eyes when the worst of the vertigo passed. It was late, if the dim lighting could be trusted for the time. He blinked then, wondering whether or not Cuddy had been to see him. As if conjured by his thought, Cuddy appeared in the doorway. She smiled to see him awake, and slid her hand atop his in greeting.

"How are you feeling?" she asked quietly.

"Better." He whispered faintly.

"How's your head?" she let go of his hand and reached for his chart before sinking down in the recliner.

"Still there." He reached up to touch along the base of his neck, felt the lobe of his ear.

"Your blood pressure keeps fluctuating." Cuddy told him, and set his chart on the tray before rising to wrap the blood pressure cuff around his upper arm. She inflated it, and watched both the gauge and the monitors as she took the reading.

"105/64. Your heart rate's low, now, too." She sighed softly as she removed the cuff and noted her findings in the chart.

House fingered the rails of the bed and avoided Cuddy's eyes as she stared down at him tenderly.

"We'll need an ECG." She told him gently. "And I think you know we need to talk about a pacemaker."

"No." he murmured.

"House…" she sighed faintly. "Please. You've suffered two cardiac arrests within the six months. You couldn't be lucky forever."

"I know." He breathed again, feeling his chest burn. His head throbbed, he could tell his pressure was rising by the pounding in his head; could hear it in the beeping of the monitors. His heart wasn't pumping steadily any more; the beat was slowly becoming more erratic. When Wilson had left the ICU without speaking a word, he'd hoped he was dying. Now he was.

"Will you consent?" she asked again. Her voice sounded so hopeful that he nodded, and felt her squeeze his hand happily and brush his hair back gently. Living. Dying. It made very little difference to him.

"I'm going to order the ECG, I'll be right back. Do you want to lie on your right side?"

He nodded again, and Cuddy unhooked him from most of the monitors before helping him shift onto his right side. She slid a pillow under his right knee, and another behind his back, wedging him in place. He reclined against the pillow; grateful for the support. She hooked him back up to the monitors, checked his vitals. His blood pressure had dipped again, as had his heart rate while he was off the IV. Cuddy smoothed his hair back, and left him to sleep. He closed his eyes, and breathed, deeply.


End file.
